


Torrid Gothic Romance

by SharpestRose



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The page that is open is a profile of a young author, the mind behind the recently published Frozen Roses. He lounges insolently on a carefully styled couch in a carefully styled room designed to accentuate how rumpled and un-styled the stylist has made him look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torrid Gothic Romance

It's six months after Alkali Lake when Piotr finds Bobby and Rogue sitting, speechless, in the common room, sitting as if they will shatter if they move. There is a newspaper on the table between them, and Bobby's thumbnail is shredding the margin methodically. Rogue does not move at all.

Closer inspection proves it is not, in fact, technically a newspaper. It's the entertainment section, so the only news it provides is what dates Avril is playing locally and how many stars the latest James Bond movie is worth and stuff like that.

The page that is open is a profile of a young author, the mind behind the recently published _Frozen Roses_. He lounges insolently on a carefully styled couch in a carefully styled room designed to accentuate how rumpled and un-styled the stylist has made him look.

It's three hours before Bobby says to Rogue in a quiet voice "I think they cropped the photo above the lighter, you can tell by his wrists. He always held them like that when he was clicking it on and off."

They are sitting on a bus now, on their way into the city. There is a press conference and a book signing at some large impersonal store where people will crush together and behave in exactly the way Rogue always avoids being a part of. She has not paused to think that this is a bad idea. Neither of them can think, for if they begin to think they fear the world will end.

Sometime before the bus pulls into the station they do remember the basic rules they must follow to avoid more trouble than they can handle (but they are so far over their heads already that it almost seems laughable to consider more coming) and they decide to stand back, away from the worst of the crush.

It makes no difference, after all. The moment John steps onto the makeshift stage set up with the desk and the sharpies and the glass of water and the promotional poster for his book, there's no crowd and no flash-pop of cameras. There's just John and Bobby and Rogue and their eyes meet and click and it's like the last six months were a nightmare or something.

Then the reporters break the moment and start firing questions and John's publicist (whose eyes seem to catch the light oddly, as if they are yellowed and strange under their gentle blue-green colour) and John's face hardens and he looks away from Bobby and Rogue like their gaze hurts him.

"It's rare for young male writers to break into the romance genre. What made you choose this type of story?" someone asks. John puts his mouth close to the microphone and answers like he's telling secrets.

"For a long time I've felt like I've got a really strong feminine part of my head, you know?" he says, and scratches his ankle and glances directly at Rogue and turns her pale as one of Bobby's icicles. "Like, I didn't ask for it, it's just _there_ and I figured, what the hell, if I'm stuck with this I might as well make the best of it."

"So these characters and this story all come from your own brain?"

John shrugs at the question. "As much as any writers' do, I suppose. Who's to say? Some of it comes from life, but I don't think anyone but those in question would be able to spot what was truth in with the fiction."

John sniggers as he says the last few words, ducking his head down as if he's afraid looking directly at Bobby and Rogue will make him crack up entirely and burst out laughing in the middle of this carefully orchestrated media circus.

"How would you respond to critics who call your book nothing more than a torrid gothic romance?"

Now John does laugh. "You say it like it's a bad thing."

And the questions go on and it's like terrible sweet strange horrible wonderous torture for Bobby and all this plus guilt for Rogue because sometimes she forgets that it hurts them as much as it hurts her and _how_ could she forget that, especially about John, and does this mean she's no better than they are in the end?

Finally the questions end and John's signing copies of the book with its gold-embossed cover and cheap pulpy paper and strange-smelling ink. And Bobby and Rogue have obviously gone back to non-thinking autopilot out of self-preservation, because there's no other excuse for the methodical and calm-faced way they hand their money over at the counter and hold their copies of the novel and line up and queue and wait their turn.

Rogue turns to Bobby and says, pleadingly, "We would never understand, if we told our future selves we didn't do this," and that makes sense to Bobby, and he nods.

When they get to the table the pair of them walk over together and the publicist with the odd eyes steps forward but John shakes his head, saying "It's ok."

He stands up and says "Back in a few minutes guys, sorry," to the crowd, and takes two steps towards privacy before turning to check if Bobby and Rogue are following yet.

Then they're in a corridor with two security types minding the door and John's mouth is pressing against Bobby's mouth so hard that John's teeth have split John's lip and Bobby can taste the metallic blunt flavour of John's blood and John's hand is stroking up and down the curve of Marie's (she can't explain why she can only be Marie when it's the three of them alone but there it is) breast and waist and hip. She moves in close against John's back as Bobby remembers how to breathe with another person sealed against his lips and presses her own mouth to the material just below John's collar, tasting the clean-linen of the fabric and the familiar, infuriating, ached-for scent of John himself.

It's a few minutes before they can pry themselves apart, their eyes glazed like sugar and skin flushed fever-bright. John buries his hand in Marie's hair, stroking his thumb down the length of the white streak and grazing his palm against her scalp for a split-second in the same teasing way he's always had, and for a moment she's afraid her heart will break with relief that this small thing hasn't altered despite it all.

"Missed you," Bobby mutters, teeth grazing John's earlobe. Good guys, bad guys, enemies, all that garbage can just _wait_ for now, for ever, because in this moment it doesn't matter and thinking about it will make the moment over and they can't give it up, not yet.

"Yes," John answers, his breath hot gasps a half-inch from Marie's collarbone, one of his hands tracing the swell of her breast and teasing at the nipple through her suddenly much-too-thick shirt. Bobby's hands are busy pulling at the button fly of John's tailored jeans, so different to the thrift-store chic he'd always worn like a second skin. But, no, they do not think about this because it will remind them that things are different now.

Anyway, new pants eventually open just the same as old pants, and Marie isn't sure if she's disappointed or not that the two security guys have left to guard outside or something.

"They're not fucking Secret Service agents or something, they're just rentacops," John snorts, nipping at each of her gloved fingertips with his bee-stung mouth that's hotter than any cheap fire metaphor could imply. "They don't stand there and pretend like nothing's going on."

"How did you -" Marie starts to say.

"You're in my head, remember?" John whispers like a threat against her ear and Marie fears that she will simply melt from the power of the hate and lust in his voice. "Ever sucked a mutant dry on purpose before? Since?"

"No," she whispers back. "You're the only one."

"Good," John smirks. Bobby has been standing in close to them both, his eyes dark and lips shiny with kissing. Now John claims his mouth again, fierce and quick, and pulls at Bobby's jeans.

"What about you, Bobby?" John says as he works the old-fashioned zipper. "'m I still the only one before or since for you?"

"Yes... oh god, John, yes..." Bobby whispers, tilting his chin up and puffing out a breath as John works his hand inside and starts to move it to the rhythm of their rapid heartbeats.

Since John seems to approve of Marie's gloves, she decides to let him become more acquainted with them, and slips her fingers past the opened button fly. A tiny sliver of her brain stays coherent for long enough to point out that they are the ultimate cliche of teenagers in heat, but then John's popped her own fly open one-handed (multi-talented, this young evil mutant writer is) and has one knuckle pressed against the thin cotton of her panties and Marie decides to just give up on this whole 'thinking' thing.

Her knees buckle and they're all sliding down, and it turns out that corridors out the back of large impersonal chain bookstores smell kind of like plastic and gum, and John's shirt is rucked up at his waist and his sweaty skin sticks to the linoleum and they're a tangle and the part of Marie that's always Rogue chants silently _mustn't touch, mustn't touch_ , and though this seems an impossible task she somehow achieves it and doesn't kill either boy.

And she long ago taught herself the art of pretending another's pleasure is her own, so when Bobby strangles a cry before it leaves his throat and bucks up against John and gasps and arches she lets herself fall over the edge too. And then, only then, does John follow them and his lashes catch small bright tears as he collapses boneless beside Bobby. Marie has moved away already, wary in the afterglow of idle hands and unconsidered touches.

After a long time or perhaps only a few minutes, John buttons himself up and pushes his hair off his forehead and stands up, the same wickedly pretty creature he always seems to be when he isn't soft and sated and theirs.

"Is this how it's going to be now?" Bobby asks quietly, looking at John unblinkingly. "We'll run into each other and do this and then go back to our 'sides'? Forever? Because that sounds pretty shitty to me."

"Not forever." John shakes his head, walking to the door that leads to the world outside the corridor, the time outside the moment. He glances back at them, like he can hold the sight static if he learns it well enough. "Just until the world changes."

Then he's gone, and Bobby and Rogue make themselves presentable as they can and go to check bus timetables. They take their copies of the book, still unsigned, back with them, but do not read the story.

They don't want to know the ending yet.


End file.
